


reclamation

by goldpeak



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, Baking, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Steve Rogers, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, One Shot Collection, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers, Retirement, Top Steve Rogers, steve didn't, well bucky retired
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 05:23:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19056085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldpeak/pseuds/goldpeak
Summary: a series of glimpses into bucky's recovery and his and steve's new, mostly-domestic life:“you’re the one i always want to come home to,” steve murmurs, before pressing a kiss to bucky’s lips.(post-endgame, non-canon-compliant. rating, tag and summary subject to change)





	reclamation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey there! xx
> 
> i don't have a posting schedule for this, nor do i have anything prewritten. this is intended to be a stress-relief project for me! i'll do my best to continue, especially if some of this is appealing to others, as well.

lemon zest and crimson

.

where the fuck is the powdered sugar?

bucky glances down at the notebook propped open in his hand. the warm tone of the leather binding contrasts with the smooth vibranium of his palm. his own handwriting, scribbled onto the creamy paper, stares back at him.

is there a difference between powdered sugar and white sugar? and does it _really_ matter if it’s all-purpose flour, or not?

he begrudgingly grabs the powdered sugar off of the shelf, before sparing a glance at the older woman watching him from down the aisle. she looks away and clears her throat, as if caught.

he tips the bill of his cap down and turns away, shopping basket hitting against his thigh with each stride he takes.

.

he makes awkward eye contact with himself in the camera of the self-checkout machine. it takes him a second to notice that it’s even him- the cap obscures his face, and what it leaves visible, his long hair shields. his eyes are dark and sunken and his cheeks are littered with dark stubble.

he’s… he’s been better.

he grabs his bags and strides out of the store, chin tucked to his chest.

.

the metal key to his and steve’s apartment gets magnetically stuck to his hand every time he unlocks the door. it pisses him off every single time, too, without fail.

with an annoyed huff he chucks the key into the bowl by the entryway before lugging his bags to the kitchen. the cheap table creaks as he sets them down atop it.

.

softened butter is much different from butter-you-put-in-the-microwave-for-twenty-seconds, bucky learns. twenty seconds isn’t even enough, surprisingly, because he still ends up with rocks of solid butter in his flour-sugar mixture, and he cusses at the ingredients before rolling up his sleeve and sticking his metal arm into the bowl.

it’s like an automatic mixer, sort of. it works eventually, absolutely decimating the butter and getting a crumbly (but even) batter.

he uses the back of his metal hand to smooth the batter into the glass pan, and develops a ghost of a smile as he rinses the residue out of the grooves in his fingers.

he slides the pan into the oven and pulls out another bowl.

more sugar, 1/4th of a cup of flour, and lemons.

he slices the two lemons into halves easily, and then crushes them in his palms above a bowl. it feels good.

the lemon juice stings at an old cut on his flesh hand. his expression remains steely as the irritated skin smarts.

.

the mixture is legitimate liquid. that can’t be right.

four eggs seem like too many eggs, bucky thinks. and he also thinks he squeezed those lemons just a little too much.

he adds another 1/4th of a cup of flour, and then regrets it when his mixture turns milky-yellow and sticky.

he adds another half of a lemon.

and _about_ 1/4th of a cup of sugar. about. approximately.

the mixture is a little grainy, now. he sighs.

.

bucky grumbles as he pulls the glass pan out of the oven. the cake-like substance on the bottom of the pan is distinctly _not_ golden-brown and definitely not firm, yet.

he presses it down into itself with a paper towel around his knuckles and it’s a little firmer. resigned to his fate, he pours the sticky lemon mixture over top of it.

it doesn’t look so bad once it’s on top of the cakey stuff.

he puts it back in the oven and sets a twenty-minute timer.

while he waits, he takes a small knife and deftly skins the leftover lemon halves. he scoops the zest into a small bowl and watches the timer on the oven tick.

.

the timer beeps and startles him: he blinks.

then, he hops off of the counter and opens the oven. with his metal hand, he grabs the dish and pulls it out.

that can’t be right, either.

it looks like a cake.

immediately, logic tells him that the extra flour he used caused the lemon top of the bars to be turned into… cake.

he has lemon cake. a lot of it.

a lot of lemon cake.

he sighs as he shuts off the oven. then, with a too-big kitchen knife, he draws lines in the cake.

which is also a mistake, because the stuff is too soft, and they don’t cut neatly- he doesn’t stop, though, because fuck that, and then he has a tray full of messily-cut lemon cake-bars.

he cleans up the kitchen as they cool.

then he takes a spoon and powdered sugar and attempts to sprinkle it on top of the squares. but it falls out in clumps and looks decidedly amateur.

so, bucky takes the strainer in the drawer and pours some sugar into it, before gently shaking it over top of the messy bars.

better.

he furrows his brow in concentration as the sugar dusts, evenly this time, over the sweets.

then he takes the lemon zest and carefully places some of it on each shoddy square.

it could be worse, he figures.

he smiles, a little bit.

.

he’s rinsing out the strainer when the lock on the door clicks. he freezes, but then relaxes when he hears the familiar pace of steve’s steps in the entryway.

he sets the strainer on the towel beside the sink and makes his way out to him.

he’s not expecting to be met with a steve that looks like he just got the shit beat out of him- and who is dripping crimson blood onto their new rug.

“c’mere,” bucky says gruffly, taking his wrist and leading him to their bathroom. “the fuck happened to you?”

steve drags his tired eyes up to look at bucky- and for some stupid reason, his lips pull as a smile spreads across his own face.

“why’re you smiling, dumbass? you look like you got trampled.”

“you look happy,” steve comments off-handedly, as he pulls his helmet off. blood drips from the brim.

“i made lemon bars,” bucky replies, bashfully, and takes the helmet from steve. he throws it into the sink, and then gestures to steve’s bloodied tactical suit. “strip.”

“demanding, aren’t we?” steve teases, but that dumb smile still hasn’t faded. he obeys, even as bucky leaves the bathroom to get his stupid lover clean clothes.

he returns to a sight he doesn’t enjoy, which is steve’s body marred and mottled with bruises and scrapes, and too much blood.

“it’s not all mine,” steve offers, as he sets the last bloodied scrap of his uniform onto the counter.

“up,” bucky says, gesturing to the counter, and watches with piercing eyes as steve hoists himself to sit on the cool marble. the clean white of his boxers contrast with the huge laceration on his outer thigh, which has already stopped oozing blood. enhanced healing, and all.

bucky pulls the first aid box out from under the counter and doesn’t miss how steve flinches when its set on the counter beside him.

he places his flesh hand on steve’s bare knee as some form of tactile comfort, and doesn’t miss how the other’s breath hitches, either.

he moves his hand in a soft, soothing circle as he gets the lidocaine (that he definitely shouldn’t have) out of the kit.

but, when this is your life, you break the rules a bit. besides, storing a numbing agent in your bathroom isn’t the worst of what bucky’s done.

“i fucked up the lemon bars,” he says, conversationally, as he pricks steve’s skin with the needle and depresses the plunger.

the icy-hot-burning-tingling feeling laces itself through steve’s nerves and he flinches, even as he replies, “oh?”

“i added flour into the lemon stuff,” bucky continues as he injects another syringe full, on the other side of the laceration. steve’s breath catches again, and he whines a bit. his toes curl. “it turned it into lemon cake. sort of.”

“can i try some?” steve asks, his voice a little strained as bucky threads the needle he’s going to use to stitch steve up.

bucky goes soft as he replies, “of course.”

a half-hour of wincing, apologetic and soothing touches, and stitches later- steve is patched up. bucky helps him into fresh clothes and guides him to their couch, where he collapses without restraint.

bucky slips off to the kitchen to get a plate and a lemon bar. he carefully extracts one and lays it on the plate before returning, offering it to steve with a shy smile.

the blonde’s eyes light up as he takes the plate from bucky. he digs into the bar excitedly, moaning vaguely obscenely as he gets his first taste of it.

bucky feels a blush rise to his cheeks as he watches steve eat his dessert. it’s good! (?)

steve teasingly licks the plate, making eye contact with bucky, who huffs a little laugh and then leans forward to kiss his crooked nose. steve reaches up to cup his jaw, smearing powdered sugar onto his stubble, and bucky laughs as the plate is set aside.

“you’re the one i always want to come home to,” steve murmurs, before pressing a heated kiss to bucky’s lips.

he tastes like lemon zest, bucky notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments. :' )


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